


The Deletion of Sherlock Holmes

by goodbye_apathy



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Gen, Post Reichenbach
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-06-23
Updated: 2013-06-23
Packaged: 2017-12-15 20:54:29
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,803
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/853941
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/goodbye_apathy/pseuds/goodbye_apathy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John tries to delete Sherlock.</p><p>This is a story of multiple things. It is an exploration of the relationship between John and Sherlock, and how John is affected by the suicide of his best friend. About finding answers and about conflicting emotions of sadness, loneliness, anger and confusion.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Deletion of Sherlock Holmes

**Author's Note:**

> This has been festering, semi-completed, for months. So, yesterday, I finally decided I ought to finish it off, if only partially. So here's part one. 
> 
> (It's my first on here, so please be gentle.)

“John.”

Ella’s voice is gentle, with a touch of condescension, somehow. Listen to me, I know better than you. I’m trained in psychotherapy. I know what you need and you’re unstable at the moment so do as I say and you’ll get better.

But I won’t. Ella, I can’t. I need him. This can’t be fixed with the right treatment. Don’t you see? He wasn’t my best friend. He was my whole life.

“Of course you’ll want to mourn him, John. But it’s been almost two months now and you need to start getting your life on track again. This is going to be hard, but you need to move on and let it go. He was your friend: he wouldn’t want this for you.”

“Don’t,” I say, clenching my jaw.

“Don’t what?”

Don’t what? Don’t act like you knew him ( _you didn’t_ ). Don’t tell me that healing me is just a matter of time and the right mentality ( _it isn’t_ ). This isn’t healing. Healing is mending the cracks, sewing up the wounds. I haven’t got any wounds.

We sit, for a while, in silence. She stares at me as though I’ve got something to say.

“Nothing,” I mutter.

She decides to drop it, which is a relief. Sometimes she tries to pursue every inexplicable word I say, my half-finished sentences, chasing them through as if they’ve got some hidden meaning in them. It’s tiring, to say the least.

Next, she tries: “Tell me about Sherlock.”

I clear my throat. Open my mouth. Help me out here, Ella. “I don’t know where to begin.”

She nods. “That’s okay. You can start anywhere. Maybe something you wanted to tell him before he died? Or your first impression of him when you met. Or maybe some of the things that he said. You need to get it out, John. I know you can do it.”

I look up at her. Her eyes are dark. So unlike his; his are pale, blue, sometimes distant, but sometimes far too close. “He has these eyes,” I end up saying. “And whenever he looks at you… it’s like he’s seeing everything. And he usually is. But he doesn’t look at you, a lot of the time. He’s too busy, too caught up in what he’s doing and sometimes he ignores you and if he does decide to look at you, it’s fleeting, out of the corner of his eye.”

I feel strange, talking about him. I’m giving away secrets about him that I want to keep all to myself. Like I’m diluting the memory of him: he’s a pitcher, half-filled with fruit squash, and each time I say something I’m adding in a glass of water until, eventually, it’ll be nothing like the original; weak and unconcentrated and, maybe one day, it’ll start overflowing; he’ll start spilling out like blood flowing out from a cut and soon, then there won’t even be anything left of him at all. He’ll bleed out and all that’ll be left in the pitcher is water.

“It sounds like you paid a lot of attention to him,” Ella notes.

“I did.”

“What else about him?”

“He was mad. He was absolutely insane. He’d do this thing, sometimes, where he’d ‘delete’ information, like his brain was a hard drive.” I give a short, sharp chuckle that’s rather closer to a bark. “And it actually worked. He didn’t even know that the Earth orbits around the sun.”

This is what I'm imagining now. A solar system, not unlike the one we inhabit. And there's Sherlock, in the centre. The sun. Dazzlingly, painfully bright. And there's me, just another lonely planet, revolving around him. Never too far away; never close enough, either.

She smiles, just a tiny bit. “Is there anything else?”

Of course there is. There’s so much to him that I don’t even know what to think.

She looks at the clock. “I’m sorry, I think that’ll be all for today. Thanks, John. I’ll see you again next week. I know you can get better. And you don’t need to go through this alone.”

And Sherlock says, _Alone is what I have. Alone protects me._

Are you sure, Sherlock? Because I’ve been alone, ever since you left me. And I don't feel protected at all.

 

I spend a moment or two lingering outside the building. I don’t know why; I’ve got no business here. The cars rush by, the ever-present stream of people move along the pavement and suddenly, I’ve got to leave.

I hail a cab and return home. ‘Home’, at the moment, is a makeshift flat that I’m renting out, which I won’t be able to afford alone for much longer. I’m dreading it, but I’m going to need to get a flatmate soon.

Once home, I sit down on the sofa and start up my laptop. I log onto my blog and stare at the screen. I’ve been doing this every evening since he died. Habit, more than anything: it’s not like I’ve got anything to say anymore. Surprisingly, Ella didn’t recommend writing about everything that happens to me.

Maybe it’s because she knows that nothing is ever going to happen to me ( _not anymore_ ). Though I don’t think she’s yet made the discovery that “getting it out” isn’t going to help at all. Sharing your problems with the world doesn’t make them disappear, does it? The truth will still be the truth, only now, everyone knows about it, and everyone wants to know more about it and they’ll start talking about it and it’s just all so tiring.

Sherlock’s voice resounds in my head: _People do little else._

 _Shut up_ , I tell him. _You do your fair share of talking, too_.

I sit there for bit before falling asleep.

 

It’s late afternoon. It’s cold. A phone pressed to my ear, a phone pressed to his. I can’t see him very clearly, he’s too far away. But I can imagine his face: an image to accompany the soundtrack of his watery voice. It doesn’t need to be like this, Sherlock. Take a few steps backwards. Wait for me, I’ll come up and we can exit the building together. We can go back to 221b and find some inappropriate trivia to laugh about. That’s what we do. Then I’ll make some tea and we can work this out. Why are you doing this? Why are you saying these things?

“I want you to tell Lestrade. I want you to tell Mrs Hudson, and Molly – in fact, tell anyone who will listen to you. That I created Moriarty for my own purposes.”

I don’t believe you. “Okay, shut up Sherlock, shut up.” Of course I don’t believe you. I know you. I know you. Why are you saying this? “The first time we met, the first time we met, you knew all about my sister, right?” He did. He knew. He always knows. He isn’t a fraud. I know him.

“Nobody could be that clever.”

“You could.”

A harsh, broken laugh and a pause. “I researched you. When we met I discovered everything I could about you to impress you. It’s a trick, it’s just a magic trick.” Stop this, Sherlock. I know how vain you are, how much you need everyone to think you’re the best (because you are). This must be killing you. Just stop.

“No. Alright, stop it now.”

“No, stay exactly where you are! Don’t move.”

I hold up my hand, angling it towards his outstretched arm. “Alright.”

“Keep your eyes fixed on me. Please, will you do this for me?”

“Do what?”

“This phone call... it’s my note. It’s what people do, isn’t it? Leave a note.”

I’m shaking my head now. “Leave a note when?”

“Goodbye, John.”

“No. Don’t-”

And then, before I can do anything, anything other than shout “SHERLOCK!” he’s falling, arms out like he’s a bird who’s forgotten how to fly, and I’m just standing there because it can’t be true, it can’t. And then I’m running towards him (it’s not just a body, it isn’t, he’s still alive, he can’t die, he can’t. )

Sherlock’s absolutely fine, I know he is. I that to myself: he’s fine, completely fine. I’m going to reach him and he’s going to smile at me and exclaim, “Late April’s fool!” and maybe there’ll be a tiny bit of blood, maybe even a couple of broken bones, but I’m a doctor, aren’t I? I’ll fix you up. Because that’s what I do.

But already, my brain’s racing, calculating distances, telling me in an assured, certain voice: There’s no way he can survive that fall.

Next, all I’m aware of is something hitting me and –

 

I wake up.

 

After a couple of pieces of toast and some tea, I’m out the door. I can’t be inside today. There’s something about this flat. I don’t know.

So I don my jacket and I’m out the door, wandering the streets of London. It all sounds a lot more poetic than it really is. I don’t know what to do. I’ve got nothing to do now that you’re gone, Sherlock. I just couldn’t bear to remain at the flat.

The streets are full of people this morning. Everyone’s walking around, hurried, somewhere to be. Christ, I need to get a job. I stopped turning up at the surgery, which means I more or less fired myself, but I can’t go on like this much longer.

Ella’s right about one thing: I do need to let him go. I just can’t.

I wander into a small, casual cafe just to get out of the street. It’s full of people enjoying their morning coffee and a bite to eat. The warm air is a welcome contrast to the biting wind outside. The sugary smell of freshly baked cakes wafts out to me, enticing, and I inhale the rich scent of coffee.

What am I doing here? I’ve already eaten. I think of Sherlock. Why did you bring me to this cafe, John? I even ate last night. I’ll be alright for a bit. I’ve got a new lead. Come on.

And I’ll try my damnedest to get him to stay and have a slice of cake, at least. And he’ll do one of two things: he’ll either scarf it down in about three seconds and then get up, saying, Come on, John, let’s go, not even sparing me a glance before hurrying out into the streets, but knowing that I’ll follow him wherever he goes. Or he’ll sit there, absent-minded, picking at his food like a moody teenager. And I’ll roll my eyes at him and tell him to hurry up and he’ll say he’s too busy thinking, or something equally ridiculous.

When I spot a waiter looking at me oddly, I hastily turn around and leave.

I’m out in the cold again, aimless. Suddenly, I get an idea. Bart’s isn’t too far away. I’ll go there.

 

Fifteen minutes later, I’m outside Bart’s, sitting on the bench where Stamford and I had our coffees that first time.

It's lonely here. This is where we met, Sherlock, in that building over there. I remember seeing him for the first time: tall, thin, with his long, angular face and sharp eyes. And he’d made his dramatic exit and showed off to me like a peacock displaying his extravagant tail: prancing around, feathers fluffed up, preening yourself after attacking any competition with vigour.

God, I miss you so much.

I don't know what I was looking for when I decided to come here, but whatever it was, I don’t think I found it.

I hate Sherlock. I hate him. I wish he’d never existed. Why would you give me a taste of something so fantastic, something so fresh and real and alive, and then just snatch it away? Like I'm a child who got into the cookie jar.

I wish I'd never bumped into Stamford that day. We both would've gone our separate ways, neither seeing the other. I wouldn't have gotten coffee with him, I'd never have gone into Bart's, never would have meet and been deduced by the world's only consulting detective. I’d never have met Lestrade, or Molly, or Mycroft, or Anderson or Mrs Hudson. I’d never have even known a man (spider) named Moriarty existed. And I wouldn’t be where I am now, either.

No, I wish I'd just limped on. Kept on walking.

If I'd never met you, then I wouldn't have known that I needed you.

I jump up off the chair.

My leg hurts.

"John!"

I spin around and almost lose balance. It's Stamford. Unintentionally meeting here is becoming a tradition.

"Oh, Mike, hi."

“How are you holding up? I heard about the news - well, everyone did - Christ. I tried to call you.”

“Yeah. I, um, changed my number. I just couldn’t face anyone. And everyone was calling me, day and night, offering their consolation, and-”

“It’s okay. I get it.”

I look at him, his round, dimpled face and unassuming clothes.

And I hate him. Because Mike, you don’t get it. You might think that you do, perhaps like the others who read my blog and thought they were experts in all matters pertaining to Sherlock Holmes. Maybe you’ve even known him for longer than I have. But you don’t know him like I do. You didn’t live with him (I think of 221b and the cluttered rooms and the familiar wallpaper with that incongruous yellow smiley face spray-painted on the wall, the bullet holes, and your books all over the floor and my chest tightens), you weren’t with him all the time.

Because for that glorious year and a half, I was with you all the time, wasn’t I?

Stamford introduced me to you. You’d told him that you were looking for a roommate and I told him I’d never find one. It’s almost as if it was fate.

But if it was fate, then why are you dead now, Sherlock?

“Oh,” Stamford says, “I was meant to tell you - Molly - she did the report on Sherlock’s, well, you know - she wanted to talk to you, but she couldn’t get in touch.”

I can feel my heart starting to beat faster. “W-when?”

“A while back. Must’ve been more than a month ago. You can come inside, check if she’s here.”

“Yeah,” I breathe. “Yeah, sure.”

I curse myself. I shouldn’t have changed my number - why did I do that? Molly’s got news, potentially important news, and I was there, blocking off my contact from the rest of the world. Blocking off my contact to information about him.

I’m not particularly opposed to silence, but I decide to restart the conversation. “How have you been?”

“You know, not bad. The same, mostly, except - it’s quite a bit calmer around here, I’ll tell you that. I can’t believe it, though, who would’ve thought-”

“Mike,” I interrupt suddenly. “You don’t really - I mean, you don’t really believe what they’ve been saying? What they said on the news? About - him being a fraud? Because he isn’t,” I add vehemently. “You know that.”

Up until now, I know I’ve been quite isolated from the rest of the world. I’ve been avoiding newspapers, and every time anything about him comes up on the telly, I switch the channel. Which, thank god, has been happening only rarely of late.

So, well, I haven’t really thought about how the others view Sherlock now. That everyone’s been persuaded into thinking he’s a bloody fraud now. And it didn’t even cross my mind that people he’s met, who have seen him in action would think that he’s anything but painfully authentic.

I think about Sally, always calling him a freak. And Anderson, always jealous of him (who isn’t?), and Sherlock, saying _Anderson, you’re putting me off._

All it took was that one seed of doubt from Sally Donovan. If only you’d been a bit kinder, Sherlock. Maybe it wouldn’t have happened. If you’d just held your tongue, reined in the insults - maybe none of this would have happened and we’d still be living at 221b, solving crimes. You and me.

But you did. You were always quick to prove your prowess, never reserved, and that seed of doubt is always more likely to come from someone who resents you.

“And he did deduce all that about you when he met you, didn’t he?” Stamford is saying. I decide to not mention what Sherlock said about researching me to impress me to Stamford. It’s utter crap, anyway. “Never laid eyes on you before and he’s telling you all about Afghanistan. And all the things that he knew, just from a glance... Still, one has to wonder...”

And it’s precisely because of that that he does wonder, isn’t it? Nobody wants to believe people as clever as Sherlock exist.

Existed.

But I know Sherlock.

“Ah, there she is. Molly!” Stamford calls.

She looks up, like a deer caught in headlights. “Oh, hi, John, Mike.”

“Blimey,” says Stamford. “I’ve still got to get lunch. See you later, John. Don’t be a stranger.”

“Bye. I’ll call you,” I reply, though I doubt I will. “Molly, Mike said that you had something to show me?”

“Yes, I tried to call you, but-”

“Sorry about that, yeah. It’s a long story. I’m here now.”

“Okay,” she says. “I was just wondering if you wanted to take his clothes - you know. The police finished with them. Apparently since it was just a suicide - well, not just a suicide, of course, it was absolutely horrible -  it didn’t need that much looking into, even if it’s - Sherlock.”

“Oh.” Is this it? Is this what she wanted to show me? His blood-spattered coat, his thick scarf, his pants and shirt? Is this all?

“But I wanted to show you something I found in his pocket,” she continues.

My heart starts beating faster again. “What is it?”

“It’s - it’s a note,” she says. “But half of it’s complete gibberish, nobody can make heads nor tails of it, but I thought you might want it anyway.”

“Thanks. That’s great.”

Pulling a clear plastic bag out of a cabinet, she says, “Are you okay, John?”

“Fine.” It’s the automatic response. “How about you? Must’ve been hard on you, too.”

“He was always so reckless, wasn’t he,” she says wonderingly. “But I never thought - I never thought anything would happen to him, especially not anything like this. And it was hard,” she adds matter-of-factly, handing over the plastic package. “Here. His things are inside. The note’s in the coat pocket.”

“Thanks. I appreciate this, Molly. I really do.”

“That’s okay. Oh, I didn’t see you at the funeral.”

“I went with Mrs Hudson later. I couldn’t...” I trail off.

“I know,” she says. “I know what you mean. I know what he meant to you.”

Her bright brown eyes look up at me, sorrowful and a little pitying.

“What he meant to me?”

“It was like he was your whole world. I know. I know the way that you looked at him, and the way he looked at you.”

“He didn’t look at me. He didn’t look at anyone.”

“Yes, he did. I know he was everything to you. You were everything to him, too, you know; all of us could tell.”

“Sherlock is dead,” I intone. “It doesn’t matter anymore.” An image suddenly invades my mind: Sherlock, lying on the pavement, blood pooling around his head, deathly pale and unnervingly still.

“Don’t say that,” she commands, surprisingly fierce. “Of course it matters. Even if he’s... dead.” She seems to have trouble saying it.

I swallow. “Thanks. Really.”

“Things aren’t - they aren’t really as bad as they seem, John. I promise. It’ll all work out fine.”

“I hope so.”

“I’ve got to get back to work. But I’m here for you, okay? You’re not alone.”

Slightly touched, I thank her again. She’s a sweet girl. We never paid much attention to each other when he was around - Sherlock did have a habit of perpetually occupying the spotlight.

 

I arrive back home with the air of a man with business to attend to.

Immediately, I place the plastic bag onto the kitchen counter and unwrap the contents. Inside, I find everything Sherlock was wearing at the time of his death: his navy woollen coat, his expensive shirt and pants, scarf, shoes, socks, gloves and even his underwear, which I initially find to be a bit odd.

I find the note easily, folded neatly into a pocket, like Molly said. It’s clearly written by him: it’s penned in his clean, flawless script.

_John,_

_I think that I’m going to die. No, it’s not for the reasons you are thinking. I am sorry._

_Q wv evca P chcxj hmyr rcx jyg W ktfg oeq W ttu wrc ik huaq wn wrw fvzr dpnt i sgaqzuc_

_-SH_

I stare at the bottom half of the message as if it’ll magically unscramble itself if I wait long enough and wish hard enough.

What could the message be?

What could he have been trying to tell me? Maybe it’s got a reason for his suicide. Or, better yet, maybe he’s not dead. Maybe he’s not really dead.

An almost tangible, unquenchable feeling fills me up, and it makes me feel as though I’m a balloon, filled with helium, prone to floating away if I please. I smile like a madman.

I’m going to find out what those letters mean.

Glancing at the clock (2:03 p.m.), I pick up a pencil and a notepad from the counter and start. I rewrite the letters. Over the next two hours, I try everything I can think of: rearranging the letters, making words out of the first letters of each word, anything.

When I was maybe six or seven years old, I remember wanting to open up a new jar of jam from the fridge. I fished the jar out of the fridge, and my little hands gripped the cold glass tightly. Imagining the sweet strawberry taste on my mouth, I remember being excited in a way only children can be. But I just couldn’t get the jar open, and I grew increasingly frustrated. Eventually, I broke the jar. Mum found me in the kitchen a moment later with a stinging mixture of glass and jam embedded into my left hand.

This is how I feel now.

What if I don’t figure out the message? What if Sherlock desperately needs to tell me something, and I’m not smart enough to work it out? I’m already late to the message, I know: I shouldn’t have changed my phone number. I could have received Molly’s call more than a month ago and have the code figured out by now.

Sherlock, will you forgive me?

I force myself take a snack break, but the fridge is frustratingly unstocked so I go out and have what could be considered an early dinner or very late lunch, picking up some groceries on my way back.

When I return to the flat, I spend the rest of the day researching ciphers on the internet and trying them out, to no avail.

The last time I look at the clock, it’s 12:05 a.m.

 

I’m at 221b. Sherlock’s sprawled out over the couch like a cat lazing in the afternoon sun; I’m seated soberly in the armchair, reading the paper. On the front page is a declaration in imposing, large print: _SUICIDE OF FAKE GENIUS_ and in smaller letters at the bottom of the page, _Fraudulent detective takes his own life_. There’s a picture of Sherlock in his grey deerstalker.

I’m asking him, as I flip through the pages, “Why did you do it, Sherlock?”

He looks at me but doesn’t reply.

Suddenly, blood starts dripping out of his hair, carving a red creek down his marble face.

I put down the paper. “Why did you leave me?”

Silence.

“Are you really dead? Are you still alive, in hiding?”

I stand up and walk towards him. Tentatively, I place my hand on his cheek. It’s cold. He stops blinking and stares at me with frozen eyes.

He’s dead.

“What’s in the message you left for me?” I whisper. "Why didn't you just tell me?

Suddenly, the blood’s gone, and there’s some colour back in his face - still pale, but not waxy. He’s laughing. “John, really,” he implores in his resonant voice. “I expected more of you. It must be so nice and peaceful in your head: I should go there for a holiday.”

I start laughing along with him until, abruptly,  I’m not laughing anymore and I’m awake and I’m sobbing, harsh, shaking sobs that wrack my whole body and leave me gasping for air. I’ve fallen off of my chair; the floor beneath me is cold and unforgiving. As if I’m being physically torn from the world, I reach my hand out and grip the wooden chair leg in front of me tightly like it’s an anchor, wrapping my other arm around myself. I’m confronted with a complete, utter sadness that’s so acute I don’t know what to do. I stay curled up like that on the floor, crying, my arm beginning to cramp up, not knowing what to do.

I imagine Sherlock beside me, his left hand on my back, his other reaching out towards the chair leg and trying to pry my fingers off. _Shh, John,_ he murmurs _, look, I’m here, it’s okay_ , but it just makes things worse because I know _this will never happen, Sherlock, because you’re dead. You’re dead and you left me and now I’m here, all alone, and if there’s an explanation encrypted into that stupid note then I can’t figure it out, because I’m an idiot, remember, just like the rest of them._

He’s the perfect reciprocation to me. John Watson: grounded and dependable. Sherlock Holmes: tethered to the earth only by his body, like he might choose to fly away at any moment.

I picture this: me, holding a string, attached to a kite shaped like Sherlock. The wind blows and he takes off so fast I have to run to keep up and at some points it's unclear if I'm really running or if he's just dragging me along.

But then there's Moriarty, holding a giant pair of scissors, and he's chiming, "Don't be boring, Sherlock," in that lilting voice of his, and then he cuts the string and the wind blows Sherlock far up into the sky, and the string is broken and Sherlock is gone.

I want to yell at the unfairness; I want to stamp my feet until earthquakes appear and everyone can feel the impact; I want to scream at the heavens and ask them why it always ends like this, but I just remain on the frigid kitchen tiles, until finally, tears still streaming down my face, I fall into a deep, dreamless sleep.

  


As it does, life goes on.

I still can’t bear to find a new flatmate, so I start devoting my time to job-hunting, and, a few weeks later, I’m taken on as a general practitioner at a small surgery not unlike Sarah’s. I spend less time poring over the note Sherlock left me and more time at work. I keep myself a little distant from my coworkers, this time - I’m not ready yet. I still think about him all the time and I’m constantly yearning for his presence, and sometimes there’ll be nights when I simply can’t fall asleep, enveloped in the memory of him. Some nights, the absence of Sherlock Holmes is so unbelievably obvious it makes me ache. I lie in bed and marvel at the silence ( _the lack of violins, the lack of explosions, the lack of his deep, smooth voice_ ). It makes me want to weep.

I wonder: what would life have been like if I’d never met Sherlock Holmes? Maybe I’d have moved out into the suburbs. Maybe I’d have found another roommate. Without Sherlock’s constant disturbances, maybe I would have found a girlfriend whom I could actually keep. We would have gotten married. She would’ve been kind and funny ( _and normal_ ). It would’ve been nice.

It would have been hateful.

And I’m realising it now. It doesn’t matter how life is now. How much I miss him. It doesn’t matter that we only got one and a half years together.

I wouldn't trade anything for the time we had together.

I wonder what would've happened to Sherlock if I'd never bumped into Stamford that day. Maybe nothing. He would've carried on.

No, that can't be right. He needed me too. I was his only friend, wasn’t I? What would he have done if I died?

Who knows? Nobody ever does, with Sherlock.

**Author's Note:**

> Yay or nay?
> 
> Next chapter should be up soonish (that's my way of saying I have no idea when).


End file.
